Compromising Positions (4 page)

He didn’t have to tell her to hang on—but she did. She hung onto him as if he was her second skin, as if she could crawl inside him. She clung to him, trembling, not understanding her own feelings at this closeness, at the way they moved together on the saddle.

Kirstin thought she felt him chuckle at the way her fingers locked feverishly around his waist, at the way she clutched him between her legs, and wondered if he knew she was bare and exposed beneath her plaid.

Because Donal MacFalon seemed determined to give her the ride of her life.

“Kirstin!” Sibyl’s eyes widened, at first in shock, then in happy surprise.

Kirstin slipped into Darrow’s room, afraid of what she might find. Donal came in behind her—he’d shown her to Darrow’s room himself—and stood just inside the half-open door, watching as Kirsten crossed over to a bed so big it made the giant, wulver man in the center of it appear small.

“Sibyl.” Kirstin cupped the Englishwoman’s sweet, freckled face, brushing her auburn hair away and kissing her cheek, so very glad to see her whole and unharmed, after her sacrificial ride from the wulver’s den to Castle MacFalon. Donal had assured her Sibyl was fine, but it was good to see it for herself. “How is he?”

“He’ll live.” Sibyl sat back down in the chair beside the man’s bed, continuing to tear sheets to make dressings. Sibyl frowned at the wulver tossing and turning on the mattress. He gave a low growl in his sleep, shaking his head, and for a brief moment he hovered between human and wulver form—a sight Kirstin was used to, but one that gave both Sibyl and Donal pause. Sibyl met Kirstin’s gaze and she saw tears in the redhead’s eyes. “No thanks to the cowardice of Alistair MacFalon.”

Kirstin swallowed hard at the name, seeing a dark cloud pass over the Englishwoman’s face. Sibyl had been promised to Alistair—Donal’s older brother, who had been laird of Clan MacFalon until his recent demise—and had been willing to sacrifice herself in marriage to a cruel man she didn’t love in order to save the wulver pack.

Sibyl couldn’t have known—and Kirstin certainly hadn’t realized, when she put the Englishwoman on a horse and sent her away from the wulver den, heading back toward Castle MacFalon—that Alistair was setting a trap for the wulver warriors, using his betrothed as bait. He’d also kidnapped Darrow’s mate, Laina, just in case the wulvers decided not to pursue the Englishwoman who had been living in their midst.

But it had been Alistair’s intention all along to lure the wulver army out of their mountain den and destroy them. Kirstin had heard the story, told by the wulver warriors, of Alistair’s cowardice and treachery. She’d heard them talk of the way Darrow had demanded single combat blood rite—a fight to the death between two men. It was a codicil in the wolf pact intended to avoid all-out war between the Scots and the wulvers.

Alistair had refused to fight or to honor the wolf pact, which his own father had signed in blood, until the crowd shamed him into it. Kirstin knew the coward had called for a stand-in, but not even his own brother, Donal, would step up for him. The wulver warriors told the story of Alistair MacFalon’s cowardice, how he’d cried like a little girl when Darrow began to best him, begging for the fight to be called off, because Laina was, in fact, not dead after all, as the Scotsman had boasted.

And when Alistair had her brought out as proof, bound and bloody but very much alive, he’d used the distraction when Darrow’s back was turned to run the wulver through. What Alistair hadn’t counted on was a wulver’s strength, determination, and incredible resilience. Darrow had managed to turn and lop off the coward’s head before collapsing at his mate’s feet.

Kirstin had heard the story told a dozen times before she left the den, but she didn’t really understand its reality until she saw it in Sibyl’s red-rimmed eyes. She couldn’t imagine what the poor woman had been through and she put her arms around her in comfort before turning her attention to the wulver recovering from his wounds in bed.

“I’d like t’take the opportunity once again to apologize fer me brother’s heinous actions.” Donal spoke from the doorway, looking between the two women. “I can’na say’t enough. And I hope, in some way, I can make up fer—”

“You can stop with the apologies, Laird MacFalon.” Sibyl looked at him fondly, her eyes softening as she saw him standing guard near the door. Kirstin saw the way the woman looked at Donal, with such great affection, and instantly, her body reacted in a way that had never happened before. Kirstin’s spine stiffened, her hands clenching into fists, and deep in her chest, she felt a growl rising, even though she was in human, not wulver, form. She swallowed it down, confused by her own response, hearing Sibyl’s voice praising the laird of the MacFalon Clan. “You’ve been more than generous with your time and your resources, Donal.”

Donal.
Sibyl called the laird by his Christian name? Kirstin met Sibyl’s eyes and saw the tears there—real tears. The woman had been through hell and back, that much was clear. Donal MacFalon was a man with a big heart and a strong sense of integrity—she’d kenned that much already. Of course, he would offer Sibyl a kind hand, a big, strong shoulder to cry on.

Why should that bother her? Kirstin wondered. And yet, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, and her blood felt as if it was boiling in her veins when Sibyl spoke of the laird.

“He’s been such a comfort to me,” Sibyl told her, reaching out a hand for Kirstin’s. She allowed Sibyl to take it, to press it to her damp cheek, even though her hand trembled slightly in anger. What in the world did she have to be angry about? She reasoned with herself, trying to shake off the feeling. If she could control her wulver side, she could certainly control this—whatever this sudden feeling was.

Except, she couldn’t. She didn’t understand it, but she couldn’t control the feeling at all.

“I can’t thank him enough for everything he’s done,” Sibyl went on. Each word grated on Kirstin’s ears, raked like a wulver’s claws on slate. She gritted her teeth, listening to Sibyl’s praise of the man, wondering why she had a sudden urge to throw the redhead from the nearest high window.

She had come to love Sibyl like a sister! What in the world was wrong with her?

Kirstin’s eyes fled Sibyl’s, returning to the doorway, where Donal stood, hand on the hilt of his sword, at the ready. His cheeks reddened slightly while Sibyl sung the man’s praises as if he were the second coming of the human’s worshipful Christ, and Kirstin tried to fight her desire to separate the woman’s yapping head from her little body.

“It’s been me pleasure, Sibyl,” Donal muttered, clearing in his throat. “The least I could do fer ye...”

“Well, he rescued me from a trap.” Kirstin’s voice was much more strident than she meant it to be, and she stood there, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling her face growing red. “I mean, he... I...”

“Oh, Kirstin, no...” Sibyl gasped at the thought. “The same one Laina was trapped in?”

“Nay, t’was a net.” Donal frowned. Kirstin knew Laina had been trapped in a cage, a message left in her blood for the wulvers to find after she’d been taken to Castle MacFalon. “Should’ve been disarmed. But we’ll have help with that in the morning. King Henry’s sent his royal huntsman to ensure all the wulver traps are taken out of the MacFalon woods.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Sibyl perked up at that, eyes bright. “Does that mean... King Henry intends to honor the wolf pact then?”

“Aye.” Donal gave a satisfied nod. “I expect the wulver messenger Raife dispatched will return with similar news. But Kirstin and I—we met Lord Eldred Lothienne and his captains in the woods. They were already working on disarming the traps.”

“I ran into an armed one,” Kirstin said wryly.

“Are you all right?” Sibyl asked.

“Donal saved me,” Kirstin reminded her, taking far too much pleasure in saying it, and enjoying the way Donal smiled in response. Kirstin approached the bed, putting the back of her hand to Darrow’s forehead. No fever—that was a good sign. “Where’s Laina? I would’ve thought she wouldn’t leave ’is side.”

“I sent her to fetch some bread and soup for our wounded warrior.” Sibyl sighed. “Every time he sees her, he wants to get up, and he’s going to pull out all the stitching I did.”

“So ye did stitch ’im up then?” Kirstin lifted the dressing to look. Sibyl was a fine healer, for a human, and had done a good job with needle and thread. The wulver in him had done a great deal of healing already, Kirstin noted—although she was shocked by how bloody the wound still was. It must have been very serious, quite deep. Wulvers healed from the inside out. Superficial wounds could heal within hours, sometimes minutes.

“Yes, I think we have him well in hand,” Sibyl agreed, watching Kirstin’s hands moving over Darrow’s body, checking him for other injuries. She didn’t feel anything broken or out of place. “It’s just keeping his pain controlled—and keeping him in bed—that we have to deal with until he’s well enough to come home.”

“Home...” Kirstin smiled at Sibyl’s choice of words.

The Englishwoman had run away from this castle, away from the cruel Alistair MacFalon, her betrothed, and had ended up in the wulver’s den. Sibyl had spent months falling deeply, madly in love with Raife, the wulver pack leader. Kirstin had watched it happen, had been heart-glad of it. Raife sorely needed a mate, and while many of the wulver women had hoped to be marked by him, he’d never taken to any of them.

Until Sibyl came along. Not a wulver—not even a Scot! An Englishwoman. A
shasennach.
But Raife loved her, and she loved him. Sibyl had been so changed. She no longer wore English gowns—even her English accent had begun to fade. And she now thought of a wulver den as her home!

“It’ll be good t’have t’pack together again.” Kirstin agreed, seeing Donal’s brow knit at her words. It was a phrase that should have instantly filled her with peace and calm, but she, too, felt a strange new tug at her heart she didn’t quite understand at her own words.

“Kirstin... you should know...” Sibyl glanced at Donal, biting her lip, and Kirstin felt that strange zing of feeling again, like a lightning strike. Then it was as if someone had suddenly dropped a weight on her chest. It was hard to breathe. What was it that Sibyl wanted her to know, and what did it have to do with Donal MacFalon?

And why in the world did it matter to her, all of a sudden?

“Raife is... angry with me,” Sibyl confessed. Donal snorted from the doorway at that, and Sibyl’s cheeks filled with color to match her hair. “To put it mildly. And he’s likely to be angry with you, too.”

“Is that all?” Kirstin asked, filled with relief. Sibyl blinked at her, looking so hurt Kirstin couldn’t help but go and put her arms around her. “I ju’t mean—a’course he is. He’s a wulver. I knew he would be. Ye had t’know he’d be angry...”

“Well... yes.” Sibyl sighed, wringing the cloth in her hands as Kirstin knelt by her chair. “Of course, I expected he’d be angry with me for leaving. But I did it to save him, Kirstin!”

“Aye.” She patted the Englishwoman’s worried hands. “Ye should’ve seen him when I told ’im ye’d gone.”

Kirstin paled at the memory alone. She’d never seen Raife in such a state. Sibyl searched her eyes, and Kirstin knew what she was looking for. She wanted proof that Raife loved her, that he wanted her, that he had truly meant it when he said that Sibyl was his one true mate.

“I thought he was goin’ to take me head right offa me shoulders,” Kirstin confessed, swallowing hard. “He was crazed. He could’na b’lieve ye’d gone.”

“I couldn’t believe it either.” Sibyl lowered her head at the memory. “I really thought, if I came back here, and told Alistair I’d marry him, that the wulvers would be safe...”

“Aye.” Kirstin nodded. “I know Raife’ll be angry when he discovers I’ve come ’ere. But Sibyl, I could’na stay ’way. Not when I knew Darrow was hurt—and ’tis all my fault. If I hadna put ye on that horse...”

“But we couldn’t have known,” Sibyl whispered. “We both thought we were doing the right thing.”

“Och, what a fine mess this is,” Donal said softly from the doorway, and when Kirstin met his eyes, she saw the sympathy in them.

Kirstin opened her mouth to speak, to explain, but a voice interrupted her.

“Kirstin! What in the da world’re ye doin ’ere?” Laina exclaimed from the doorway, carrying a tray. She was so startled, she nearly dropped it—Donal’s quick reaction kept that from happening. He carried the tray over to the bedside table while the women gathered together.

“I came t’bring all’ye home, safe’n’sound.” Kirstin put her arms around her. Laina’s thick, white-blonde hair was pulled into a long plait down her back. She was dressed in her plaid, just like Sibyl. “How’s Darrow?”

“Cranky.” Laina smiled at him and Darrow moaned in his sleep, like he’d heard her. “But I s’pose that’s understandable, given he was run-through with a broad sword.”

“And how’re
ye
?” Kirstin asked, touching the other woman’s bruised and battered face. Laina was a stunning beauty, and Kirstin could tell the marks had already begun to heal. Wulver women didn’t mend quite as quickly as the warriors, but they still had a significant ability to mend themselves. “They hurt you?”